A parley
by What 1987
Summary: It is an evening in 1881, and despite the date, too much is revealed in a simple conversation.


We have here a situation where the location of our players is essential, location both as that wide space which we could perceive as encircling them and as the relative position of each of them to every other object and player in said space. Their attitudes in holding such positions will also speak to us with a certain clarifying ambiguity. Let us then begin our narration:

The place we find ourselves in is a sitting room, that of 221-B Baker Street, which is part of the lodgings of Sherlock Holmes. We cannot be emphatic enough in signaling that a sitting room is a recreational room for the owner, as well as a site of reunion of some intimacy.

In this room there were at the moment four individuals (our players). Quite expectedly, the aforementioned Sherlock Holmes, sitting over his wide, comfortable, yet spartanly upholstered lounge chair. This chair had been defined as his as a by-product of living with another person in previous precious years: Dr. John Hamish Watson. Holmes had immediately identified the adverse repercussions of sharing the same space with Another, for two could not occupy the space of one, and so, having acquired two identical lounge chairs, he pointedly sat one of them in an oblique angle, so that it would be near enough to the fire yet not facing the flames but the door, and where the view of the window would still be readily available; this chair he claimed as his, most discourteously.

He sat there not completely straight, one leg crossed over the other, his arms as extended as they could along those of the chair, so that his hands gripped the bends at the end.

Irene Adler sat in the lounge chair opposite him, that which by necessity had been Watson's and now was hers, somehow, less legitimately. Her posture evidently varied from that of the detective; she also crossed one leg over the other, but her upper-body leaned forward, her chin supported on her right palm which elbow she planted on the arm of the chair, her other hand hung idly above her skirts, her thin wrist in a gracious curve, for of her left limb it was the forearm which weighted over the arm of the chair.

Mary Watson sat very straight, her legs puritanically tangent to one another, her right hand over her left posing lightly on her lap, on a not quite so comfortable wooden chair, giving her back to the extinct, gelid, charcoal-colored fireplace, horizontally somewhere between Irene and Holmes. Closer to Holmes only coincidentally.

Watson stood further form the three of them, with the low of his back supported on the short sideboard. His elbows bent backwards so his hands could hold onto the edge of that piece of furniture.

The center was free space but the small-table was easier to locate. Socially, at least, it was definitely the center, for it offered them their crystal cups of wine, and the wine filled the silence, filled their small moments of distraction, propagated each one's thought, and made them bolder.

The year was 1881.

"It was a very pleasant evening", Mary said, wearing a temperate smile.

Watson let go of the edges of the sideboard as he rushed to stand by his wife's statement, "It was", his eyes jumped unsound from Irene to Holmes, and back widely to her wife's, "it really was". He crossed his arms and shrugged one shoulder, proffering an added touch of sincerity.

"I think The Royale had an especially refined menu tonight. Don't you think?… Mr. Holmes", she nodded gratuitously.

Holmes smiled at her, a lazy smile that was wide because it stretched his lips, but didn't open as one founded in pleasure would, it neither was artificial nor double-dealing. It was this last quality of his smile that made Mary's eyes sparkle. "It was my dear, it really was. I thought _les Tournedos Rossini_ were specially accomplished". Smiling, Adler rolled her eyes discreetly. "The stronger musk aroma of the truffles they used could not come from any other kind than those harvested near Alba at winter, and they appropriately accompanied the dish with Barbaresco wine… There's a new second Chef, and he's Italian."

"I didn't know you knew the staff!"

"I don't."

Mary gaped a little, and turning a little towards Watson, showed her approval at his choice of friends. "Well Mr. Holmes, if you don't mind me saying so, you are delightfully cunning! One wonders if one shouldn't take higher precautions to hide its habits from you."

"It's a futile thought, for it wouldn't work if you tried."

"Bravo Sherlock", intervened Irene, "Italian fine ingredients in French cuisine, which before the Royale had only managed to execute mildly well. Your deductions are tapping on common sense".

Since this was about their fourth meeting, Mary could still be a little flustered at how brazen Irene continually was. It was known to them all that she lived with him now, but their relations being carried outside marriage, the fact that she called him "Sherlock" publicly sounded like a high clown whistle to her ears, and now on top of everything, she was rolling her eyes and defying her husband (if not by title, at least by right) with ample disregard.

"In that you're wrong darling", Mary became rigid again, at the mention of the term of endearment, he could have as well said 'my paramour' or any other scandalous thing, "I could have assumed any number of things, from a new cargo company with easy access to Italy recently establishing in England, to a new French chef fastidious enough about the origin of his ingredients, or a change of owners; and yet I assure you my assumption is the right one."

"You cannot deny Miss Adler", began Watson immediately invested, always managing to be gracious and gentlemanly even in disagreement, "that Holmes's capacity for deduction it's an extraordinary gift, truly without equal, and neither do I think that you would like to deny it".

Irene smiled, and not flirting with anyone – because that was not the point -, her head moved coquettishly. "Of course I wouldn't want to deny it Dr. Watson. He's my man after all, and no man of mine could be anything below extraordinary".

Holmes scowled and joined the tips of his fingers. "I must say Irene, don't you find that you have a certain fixation with things that are out of the ordinary?"

"Why Detective, they are only my favorite things."

Watson exhaled a chuckle. Mary pursed her lips, that Woman was every time more… lax.

"Well then you are perfect for him". Mary widened her eyes at him warningly for daring speak of it so openly, but Watson ignored her deeming they should be familiar enough, even if it was only the four of them. "He is - as he himself once said in a different context – incapable of living without the thrill of the macabre. Out of the ordinary and macabre aren't really opposing concepts". Watson saw the four of them as a family and he wanted them to start behaving as one.

"If I don't remember incorrectly, - and I don't of course -, I said those words referring to you old boy".

Watson fidgeted as if it was normal, and glanced at Mary in an awkward smile. "You did."

"And even though recent events would seem to refute me, I know I'm not wrong".

Mary's voice was louder: "Are you never wrong Mr. Holmes?"

"Hardly. I would certainly advise anyone to bet on me against any of my coetaneous."

"It worked for me", the doctor mentioned, just in passing.

Holmes smiled vividly and looked at his friend. "That is true! Mrs. Watson, the Doctor's gambling was only a story with a happy ending because of me".

"Well then, I suppose I really should thank you Mr. Holmes, you see, that story hasn't yet reached its end". Mary's last sentence came from a more convivial spirit.

"Is that true Dr. Watson", asked Irene, spurred on, "are you still betting?"

Holmes was brisk like a kid high on sugar when he answered: "Of course he is princess! I don't think he will ever stop".

Watson raised an eyebrow at the term 'princess' just because he never imagined it coming out of Holmes's mouth, for anything other than a real Princess. Mary didn't pay it attention anymore.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't, _princess, _I do sometimes."

Holmes laughed, Irene gaped thoroughly bemused and Mary exclaimed: "John!"

"But only occasionally. Last year I only did at the finals of the Derby. Many of our fellow Englishman must have done the same I'm sure."

Mary turned to Irene, in a sort of whisper only reserved to gossip with good friends: "And he brought home impressive winnings".

"You did?"

"I can't complain."

Holmes cleared his throat.

"Thank you Holmes", Watson said, rolling his eyes and dragging his voice. Both women giggled.

"You know Mr. Holmes", said Mary exceedingly relaxed for her own sake, "for a long time I wondered about the strength of your and John's friendship… truth be told, I think I still do."

Dismayed, Mary saw how her commentary abruptly wiped off the smiles from her three cohorts.

Watson coughed quietly, and Holmes took then upon himself the duty to respond.

"I find it disconcerting that a strong friendship between males should be regarded as strange. I daresay sometimes it is even frowned upon, and yet, there's been so many precedents of this kind of bonds, actually of even a stronger more affectionate kind. I expect that if all of us in England had access to the manuscripts and accounts, bottom line to the same cultural level… even homosexuality could come to be pedestrian".

"Homosexuality?", questioned Mary, throwing ashamed glances she didn't comprehend herself at her husband, and the utterly fascinating character speaking to her. "Don't you think that you go too far Mr. Holmes?"

"Certainly not. In fact I already see the Church losing political power, even if it is only a small part. The world is no longer being explained in terms of what is a sin and what isn't. And once the Church lost influence over what the average citizen believes of homosexuality, it would start being seen under a different light… Only the future can tell what light that will be, but I'm sure it won't be as fast to condemn something that has come so naturally to many remarkable men, before, us."

Us… the word had had a certain inflection, a certain whiff of personality. They all blinked more than necessary, tried to down their wine in small inconspicuous sips.

Irene clawed the end of the arm of 'her' lounge chair, the blue-eyed squint he sent Holmes slit.

"I know I must seem vexingly progressive to you Mrs. Watson"…

"No!, of course not!"

"But I think that if my man had any homosexual inclinations, I would accept it, as long as he assured me it is me he has chosen, even if he was free to love a man."

Dear Irene failed to be discrete, scowling, clawing and inclined ahead like about to jump on a prey, she fixed Holmes with steel-blue eyes.

"Really Irene, I fail to see how any man could prefer another man over you." Holmes said, and there was a side-glance from both Holmes and Watson to one another. Holmes lowered his head only slightly, and occupied his hands and his entire being lighting his pipe.

Irene elongated her neck defiantly. "And if he did love a man while he loved me, I could still live with that, as long as he hid nothing from me, and behaved towards me as I, being the woman he loves, deserve."

"My dear Miss Adler are you serious?!", inquired Mary, "if we were talking about Mr. Holmes, would you do that?"

"I would."

Holmes saw all necks turn to him. Maybe it wouldn't have been so unhinged to ask how is it that they all had been replaced by meerkats while he stared at his tobacco.

"Well my darling, I return the sentiment. And if the closest I've had to a male lover wasn't married…"

His sentence was interrupted by Watson's chuckle.

"We'd be closer too to testing your postulations…"

Watson opted then for the cackle.

"But Mrs. Watson is absolutely enchanting, as you are, and we won't have the need. I would do the same for you darling, but I'm afraid every other woman I have ever known beside the two of you are unforgivably ordinary."

"What a fascinating conversation!", Mary exclaimed, nailing to her head the notion that none of what was being said had any relation with the four of them. "I'm curious John, what is your stance on homosexuality? You are a doctor, is it a perversion in the sense I've heard your colleagues use the word?"

"What a great question Mrs. Watson!", Holmes said, turning an all too entertained face towards his doctor friend.

"I…", said Watson, shook his head, pressed his cheeks pensively with one hand, "I…, I truly don't know what to say."

"Think harder", Holmes almost hissed.

He showed his palms up as some men pray, helpless and at last spat: "No!"

"Ha!", was all Irene would contribute.

"It isn't?", asked Mary carefully, disconcerted.

"My opinion…", as his index finger hesitated light came into his mind: "is that of Holmes".

"So basically", came Irene to their help again, "what you are saying is that it is normal and is only a cultural disparity what is hindering it, you are saying, you practically understand it".

"Well Miss Adler, understanding it…" while he shook his head he had time to see Holmes exhale a bored, big rude cloud of smoke, and behind it that accusing countenance. "Understand it yes, perhaps not share it."

Holmes coughed: "Perhaps!"

"Bless you!", replied Mary.

Irene covered her mouth and was successful in keeping her giggles to herself.

"Miss Adler", said Mary, suddenly resolute to make her one of her best friends. "I think we may have started on the wrong note you and I. You are not vexing to me at all, I'm just not accustomed to moving between people of such liberal beliefs as you and Mr. Holmes. But I don't condemn you. In fact I believe, in my heart, that you two may be two of the kindest, best of people I will have the pleasure to know."

"Mrs. Watson did you know she steals for pleasure?"

They all were again meerkats, only this time they were meerkats from an electric planet flashing electricity at the most minor of provocations.

"It's a condition", he added on a spur.

"Oh my dear!", Mary concerned, turned hastily to Irene, while Holmes and Watson cackled in companionship and silence, "have you sought for help already?"

"I have. Sherlock just wants to discover me behind any crime he cannot solve. I have been, already, completely cured for years."

"I see."

When Mary turned to look at Holmes she saw his husband sitting on another wooden chair by his side, both inclining forward, their palms together as if they were praying before going to bed. There was a certain mischievous thing about them.

"Well, anyway, as I was saying, I think that you are wonderful. And if I.. If I ever did wish you were married is only so that we'd have more in common the four of us."

"Don't worry Mrs. Watson we do have one thing in common", Holmes casually commented.

"Do we Mr. Holmes? What is it?"

"We all have shared the same doctor." Mary giggled as both Watson and Irene gaped.

"I guess you are right."

Mary had just finished her wine, and so Watson, expedite, stood up and went for the bottle of wine on the sideboard, half-filling, half-leaving-empty the lady's cup.

Irene lifted indolently her own cup, "Be a darling Dr. Watson, won't you?". Her cup wasn't empty, but that made no bigger difference than the additional carmine, sinewy, voluptuous liquid it could hold.

After filling it, Watson sat down on the settee, facing Mary. She smiled at him, and took a sip of her wine.

"Listen Mr. Holmes, Miss Adler, I want us to be friends, and after only this four wonderful reunions, I already feel like we are. The question just won't leave my mind, and I hope you won't be offended if I do ask it now".

Holmes shook his head, his chin tilted upwards, plainly content with a ring of smoke he had just formed. Irene extended her hand somewhat gentlemanly herself and agreed: "By all means."

"If it is too inappropriate, I beg of you, feel free not to answer and excuse me... How did you come to agree, not to marry?"

Holmes, jammed his pipe between his teeth, and stared at Irene, thinking: 'because I don't trust her, anytime ahead she is likely to abandon me'.

Irene stared back, the blank expression on her face hiding it all. 'Because a man as rational as he, as he himself has expressed before cannot understand love, I see him soon tiring of it, of me, and returning to Watson, only for the pleasure and ease of receiving his blind devotion.'

Holmes answered for them both: "The reason we have decided to live outside convention, was only due to a careful objective discussion of the advantages this type of union offers. In this way we do not get tangled in the fragile and complicated web of homely life. We have decided we do not wish to live tied to each other; allowing the other to be free, our relationship will last what it shall and no more. If it is forever then all the better, for me anyway. However, knowing that most relationships fall into heavy tediousness, or resent the marks of the waning love in acts as despiteful as infidelity; we have promised not to be resentful if the other one wants the current state of affairs to end."

Irene hadn't stopped staring at him, and after taking the cup to her lips, she just added: "That's exact."

"Is it though?" Watson had reclined his back carefree, and draped one arm over the settee. Seeing his comfort Mary decided to imitate him, and at last she could leave that hard wooden chair without revealing her discomfort, and sit by her husband's side. "Have you ever considered what would you do, should you ever want to have a child?"

Holmes smirked, "Don't worry old boy, maternal instinct bore no roots in Irene."

Both Watson and Mary looked like startled horses, and they hissed. It was her who reconvened him: "That's a horrible thing to say to a lady!"

"It's the truth though", Irene admitted shrugging and leaning forward to lay her cup back on the table. "I have never liked children. I won't deny that this last few months that I've been with him I've imagined myself pregnant once or twice, I guess as anyone dreams of anything else. And then I realize that the only joy I would experience from having that baby would be that it would be his, that it would probably be a little Sherlock running around. And in my opinion, the world is in dire need of more Sherlocks."

Irene's words mollified the Watsons, whose faces melted into shapeless pools of honey. These softened faces turned to Holmes.

Holmes blushed, and trying to rest aloof only let his fingers squirm. He spoke, with an affected severe parsimony: "You never told me that."

Irene shrugged again. "Well it didn't matter since we're not having a baby, does it?"

Holmes felt his penis twitch a little, a feverish and weakening feeling possessing his body. Suddenly he had a strong wish to take Irene to bed and penetrate her, and ejaculate all over her and inside her until she was round and glowing with his child.

Glancing both at his pipe and at her almost coyly, Holmes spoke from a reluctant mouth: "I avow, I have had, sometimes, the ardent impulse to get you pregnant." Mary simpered and hid it against Watson's shoulder. "As you and I both know, I have refrained." The Watsons writhed a bit, both slightly embarrassed and seduced. "But when I have let my imagination run, it was always a little Irene, with her pouty lips, and her impeccable, sense of fashion."

And that was it. Irene gave him a sad flicker of a smile.

Silence reigned in the room as it reigns in a tomb. Nervously now, even mildly tortured, they all washed down all the wine they had left.

After a whatever comment from someone about the weather, they bid farewell and Watson promised to wire them for a next meeting.

The Watsons rigidly suffered their hansom voyage to their home, while between many thoughts jumped to their conscious that of Holmes _refraining_. The erection this inflicted on Watson he had to masturbate away in the bathroom, just as soon as they had arrived.

Irene and Holmes were left alone and vulnerable, and unwilling to face each other. Holmes absorbed himself in a case and Irene left the apartment. When she came back, in the small hours of the day, she laid at the back of an obviously awake Holmes and hugged him. He fell immediately asleep.

That night of 1881, was for the young couples just as related.


End file.
